


In The Dark

by RileyC



Category: Agent Pendergast series - Child & Preston
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In some slightly alternate universe where Vinnie and Capt. Hayward never quite got back together again, an off-stage incident has left Aloysius, well, in the dark, and his seeming resignation to that is getting on Vinnie's nerves...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short, a couple of Kink &amp; Cliche challenges ago, one of my prompts was "blindness," which appealed to me greatly, and for which I immediately whipped up a couple of Pendergast/D'Agosta scenarios ... and then I shelved those, thinking what's the point of writing something no one on my flist wants to read, and instead pulled together something B/K in the end. As I recall, that fic went over well, but ... it wasn't what I had really wanted to do.
> 
> So, skip forward to now, with and , and maybe a couple others into Agent Pendergast, and asking for a blind!Pendergast fic, and you may imagine it was a pleasure to pull this thing out and give it another shot.
> 
> The moral of the preceding is, of course: Follow my instinct and write what I want to, and don't worry about anything else.
> 
> SPOILERS: Infinitesimally tiny ones for _Relic/Reliquary_ onward.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters and universe created by and the property of Messrs. Preston and Child; but they're probably never going to take Al and Vinnie in this direction, so I'm playing in the not-for-profit sandbox.

Vincent D'Agosta knew he was being unreasonable, and couldn't even really explain why the action troubled him so – but watching Pendergast, over on the sofa, long white fingers running over and over the raised, Braille lettering of a book, was annoying the hell out of him.

"Why are you doing that?" he asked, not caring that it wasn't his place to demand an explanation.

Pendergast looked his way, silvery gaze lacking its usual keen intensity. It hurt D'Agosta to see that. That sharp gaze, insightful beyond mere vision, could be unsettling, perceiving things D'Agosta might have preferred remained hidden. Yet, D'Agosta owed so much to that perception; to Pendergast's seeing the truth behind the façade D'Agosta had tried to put up, and refusing to let it stand between them.

The way D'Agosta saw it, it was Pendergast putting up a barrier now, and it was up to him to not let it stand.

"I beg your pardon?" Pendergast said

"Why are you messing around, learning Braille? Your eyesight is coming back." The doctors had said it would just take time; that the cortical blindness Pendergast was experiencing was simply taking somewhat longer than expected to clear up.

"And you know this how, Vincent? Some sudden psychic enlightenment?" Pendergast asked. Anyone else, it would have come out snarky, but his mellifluous Southern accent served to mute that.

Oddly enough, D'Agosta took some comfort in that. It told him Pendergast's show of adjusting to his situation was just that – and he guessed that's why the Braille thing kept bugging him. Pendergast didn't have to put on a brave face, not for his sake, and D'Agosta resented that his friend thought it was necessary.

"You can be scared, you know," D'Agosta said.

Pendergast sighed, gaze drifting toward the fireplace. "I'm not afraid, Vincent. I'm…" he sighed again, shook his head. "It's been a month. My vision hasn't returned. I have to start accepting that there is an increasing likelihood it never will."

"You can prepare for the contingency without fucking embracing it."

"My dear Vincent, I am hardly embracing it." A faintly discontented note colored his voice now. "I have to do something, Vincent. I can't work…" He shook his head again, the anxiety a trifle more marked. "What would you have me do?"

"This – talk to me. And let me help." Let him assuage some of the guilt he felt that it was Pendergast who'd been injured, and not him. It could have been him, or neither. They had both been knocked off their feet by the blast. Why hadn't Pendergast walked away without a scratch too? D'Agosta tried not to dwell on that, knew there wasn't an answer, but delicately tiptoeing around the whole matter hadn't helped a lot, either.

A muted smile touching his lips for a moment, Pendergast said, "You possess many admirable qualities and infinitely useful skills, Vincent, but I fear this is beyond you."

D'Agosta sighed. "I can't restore your vision, Aloysius, but I can wait it out with you." Getting up from his chair, he turned off the lamps so the only illumination in the room came from the blaze in the fireplace. "If you want to just sit in the dark, then we'll sit in the dark together," he went on, settling on the sofa beside Pendergast, reaching for the Braille book and setting it over on the table, with the plate of beignets Pendergast hadn't touched.

"It's hardly the same, Vincent."

"No, you're right. I can see. I can go out of here and do anything I want." He scooted around so he was facing Pendergast. "Tell me that pisses you off."

"Hardly."

"Not even a little bit?" D'Agosta prodded. "You've got some Zen thing going on, you're at one with your blindness and everything's rainbows and unicorns?"

Even lacking focus, the look Pendergast trained on him was packing heat – more than D'Agosta had felt from his friend in a long time. "You want me to be angry?"

"Yeah, you bet your ass I do."

Pendergast shook his head, looking away, back at the flames. "That's not who I am," he said, voice soft now, hardly more than a whisper, and carrying a wistful note that made D'Agosta ache for him.

"You're okay if I'm mad on your behalf, though?" D'Agosta asked, reaching over to rub a soothing hand along Pendergast's back.

A short, dry laugh escaping him, Pendergast turned back toward him. "How would that help?"

"I don't know, but it'll make me feel better."

"Far be it for me to deny you any therapeutic action."

D'Agosta smiled, getting more comfortable on the sofa. He guessed this counted as a kind of progress. "When the hell did you learn Braille anyway?"

"It seemed a skill that might prove useful in some situation. I only acquired the most rudimentary ability, however." An infinitesimal, ironic smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "I hadn't anticipated ever needing to acquire the skill for more personal reasons."

It was probably an ability that would come easily to him, with those dexterous magician's fingers, D'Agosta reflected, searching for a way to steer them in another direction. "Yeah, well, we're not going to think about that right now, not before we have to."

Amusement coloring his voice, Pendergast said, "We're not?"

"No. We're going to think positive."

"Yes, because loss of vision is well known for its beneficial attributes," Pendergast said, his cultured accent not quite smothering the snark this time.

Smiling, D'Agosta said, "Well, it could be, if one of us was a woman."

Pendergast canted him a puzzled look. "In what way?"

"Well, I mean," feeling a bit flustered, D'Agosta cleared his throat, mentally scrabbling around for a graceful way out of this, "that's how it's played in the movies and TV, for, umm," he cleared his throat again, "romantic purposes." Jesus. Could he stick his foot in it or what?

Apparently in no humor to simply let it go, Pendergast said, "Blindness serves as a romantic plot device?"

Busy picking a piece of lint off his pants, D'Agosta shrugged, even though Pendergast couldn't see the gesture. "Well, yeah. That's just one--"

"In what manner is it employed?"

D'Agosta stared at him, sighed. "There's the … face touching, for one."

"Face touching?"

"Yeah, you know, to, umm, learn what somebody looks like, memorize their features. You know, like--" Before he could entirely stop himself, D'Agosta had automatically reached over, the tips of his fingers grazing one distinctive cheekbone, before freezing, hovering a hairsbreadth away. "Ah…" He could pass it off as his Italian heritage, that was it; his inborn need to wave his hands around overriding his better sense.

Before any such lame ass explanation could reach his lips, however, Pendergast had reached up to touch his hand, press it down, so D'Agosta's palm was cupped along Pendergast's jaw, thumb poised directly over his lips.

"Demonstrate," Pendergast said.

That command should have made the whole thing cool and detached, academic… What D'Agosta actually felt was an incredible sense of intimacy weaving its way between them as he let Pendergast guide his hand, let his fingers splay against a fine-boned cheek – mightily strove to keep the touch from turning into a caress as he moved his fingers over Pendergast's face. "See, you just," he had to clear his throat again, "just trace the shape, like this," he said, fingertips gliding along strong jaw, up along a wide forehead, tracing the line of an eyebrow, the pads of his fingers tickled by fine, silky blond hair.

"What's that thing where," he ran a fingertip around the rim of an ear, "they used to try and read someone's skull?" Did one of them catch his breath? He thought one of them had…

"Phrenology?" Pendergast said, a peculiar tone in his voice, one D'Agosta had never heard, and couldn't identify now.

"Yeah, yeah … phrenology. I can never think of that…" He couldn't have thought of his phone number right this moment. "They'd call it," he had the craziest urge to run his finger along Pendergast's long, straight nose, but successfully fought it off, "racial profiling now," he finished, sitting back, letting his hand fall away.

Drawing a shaky breath, D'Agosta sat there, not sure what to do, not even sure what he was experiencing. Something he hadn't planned, something he hadn't expected. Something that had his belly fluttering – and he wasn't sure if it was with fear or excitement. Maybe it was both?

Jesus. Pendergast was going to tell Proctor to throw him out of the house. Tell him to never darken his doorstep again… Cup his chin and thoughtfully rub a thumb along D'Agosta's bottom lip?

"Yes," Pendergast spoke softly, thoughtfully, as his fingers explored D'Agosta's features, "I can understand how this could engender a sense of intimacy."

Impossible not to close his eyes as Pendergast touched his cheek, ran a fingertip, light as a feather, along an eyelid, before slowly drawing the back of his hand down along D'Agosta's face.

"You haven't shaved?" Pendergast asked, exploring beard stubble with as much attention as he usually brought to a clue at a crime scene.

D'Agosta's mouth felt like a desert; he licked his lips, but that barely helped. "Not since this morning. You know Italians…"

"Hmm," Pendergast's fingers scratched through the stubble, explored the outline of an ear – D'Agosta definitely heard a gasp escape his own lips this time, "that sounds suspiciously like racial profiling," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, adding, "I believe I would know you in the dark, Vincent."

"Probably not really practical," D'Agosta said, trying to bite back another gasp as Pendergast's hand trailed along his shoulder, down his arm, to clasp his hand and run inquisitive fingers along it.

"Y'all never know what might be useful," Pendergast murmured, accent growing more pronounced. "I believe I would know you anywhere, anytime, however. This finger, for instance," he lightly rubbed the scarred tip of D'Agosta's middle finger, "is fairly unique."

"Yeah," D'Agosta licked his lips again. "Not my favorite memory of Italy."

Pendergast looked at him, something inquisitive in his eyes even now. "What is?"

"I…" He shook his head, thinking most of it had been terrible, but a couple of moments… "That first night in Florence, you showing me around after we'd eaten. That was good." Just them, enjoying each other's company and not chasing after any kind of maniac for that brief slice of time. It had been one of the best times of his life.

Pendergast nodded, thoughtful. "Yes, it was." He squeezed D'Agosta's hand. "I am glad I had your company, Vincent."

Uncomfortable with that, knowing he hadn't done nearly enough, not at the end, D'Agosta said, "You probably would have been better off without it."

"Not possible."

Biting his lip, remembering the grief and anger that had swelled through him, D'Agosta tried to shake it off, knew some of it would always be with him. "You're never going to win this argument, Aloysius."

Brows drawn together in puzzlement, Pendergast said, "I didn't know we were having one."

"Yeah, well…" D'Agosta shrugged. "I learned one thing."

"Which was?"

"To not just fall in line with everything you want me to do."

"My dear Vincent, I wasn't aware you ever had."

D'Agosta knew his incredulous look was wasted on the other man, but he couldn't help himself. "Excuse me? You weren't _aware_?"

"Vincent--"

"I ate a rat for you," he stated flatly, and took some satisfaction that Pendergast looked like he was trying to come up with a retort – and failing.

"Yes, well," Pendergast finally said, the faintest note of huffy reproof in his voice, "one might suppose you would be over that by now."

Smiling, D'Agosta said, "Yeah, well, let's just say it's the kind of experience that stays with a guy awhile."

"Well I do sincerely apologize," Pendergast said, still sounding piqued – and making D'Agosta's smile grow broader. "It was only our lives at stake, after all."

"You could've given me some warning."

"Would that have really made it any better?"

D'Agosta shrugged again, rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe not. But I could have braced myself for it, that's all I'm saying."

Looking like he was sincerely turning that over, Pendergast nodded a concession after a moment. "Point taken." He sat back a little, relaxing into the cushions, unfocused gaze searching for D'Agosta's. "Is that the extent of the dramatic repertoire, then?"

D'Agosta blinked, mentally shifting gears. "Dramatic repertoire…?"

"Regarding the dramatic presentation of blindness. It's limited to touch?"

"Oh, yeah, pretty much. I mean, that one packs the most punch. And maybe taste."

"Taste? In what way?"

Oh jeez… "You, umm, you … feed somebody and it, uh, can get kind of erotic," he finished, letting his voice trail away in what he hoped might be an unintelligible mumble.

No such luck, however; Pendergast's hearing was keen as ever. "Are you speaking from personal experience?"

"What, me?" D'Agosta gaped at him, floored he'd even go there. "No, I'm … talking about movies."

"The erotic potential seems rather unlikely to me."

"Yeah, well," jeez, he couldn't believe they were having this conversation, "trust me on this one, it's got potential."

"Convince me," Pendergast drawled, making it sound like a dare.

_Convince him?_ Staring at him, mouth gone dry again, D'Agosta knew he must have heard that wrong, must have projected his own desire into the words. Not that he had _desires_… Oh man.

"What's going on, Aloysius?"

Pendergast's slim shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug. "You stated a fact. I'm asking you to present evidence that substantiates it."

Regarding him thoughtfully, trying to work his way through what felt like a minefield with the potential to blow him to smithereens at any second, D'Agosta sought clarification. "You want me to feed you something to see if it turns you on?"

"If you like."

"If I…" D'Agosta peered at him more closely in the muted light, wishing he could read him better. "What about you? What if you don't like it?"

Glancing away toward the fire, as if D'Agosta could read his face like a book, Pendergast said, softly, "I believe there is little chance of that, Vincent."

D'Agosta drew in a sharp breath, looking around wildly for a moment at that admission.

Misinterpreting his silence, Pendergast said, voice more detached now, everything about him screaming withdrawal, "Forgive me, I presumed too much. I--"

"You presumed fine, Aloysius." D'Agosta's gaze fell on the table, the untouched plate of beignets sitting there. Proctor had brought in the small, square donuts, dusted with powdered sugar, after the dinner Pendergast barely touched, probably hoping the New Orleans treat would awaken Pendergast's appetite. No luck then, but maybe now…

Before he could be swayed by the thousand reasons racing through his head why this was a really, really bad idea, D'Agosta reached for one of the donuts. "Try this," he said, bringing it to Pendergast's lips.

Pendergast inhaled first. "Pastry?"

"Taste it."

The focus might be off in those silvery eyes, but a look from them still packed a punch – one that D'Agosta felt go straight to his gut … in an amazingly good way. He was still feeling it shiver through him when Pendergast bit into the donut, tongue darting against D'Agosta's fingers in the process.

"Beignets?"

D'Agosta nodded, swallowed, managed a breathless, "Uh-huh," as Pendergast bit again, sharp teeth lightly nipping his fingers this time.

When he would have pulled his hand away, Pendergast held him there, delicately licking traces of sugar from his fingers – and making his heart rate skyrocket.

"Are you having trouble breathing, Vincent?"

_Bastard_. Cupping Pendergast's chin with intent this time, D'Agosta slowly, thoughtfully, rubbed his thumb back and forth over Pendergast's bottom lip, rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, a nearly infinitesimal shudder passing through the lean body. "I don't know," he spoke softly. "Are you?"

He had the upper hand for a moment – Pendergast took it back in an instant, licking the pad of his thumb, biting it, sucking it.

"Oh jeez…"

Releasing the thumb, the corners of his mouth curling up with the kind of smile a cat would wear finding an open can of tuna, Pendergast asked, "What would happen next?"

Watching him, that smug look annoying and exciting all at once, D'Agosta growled, "This, this would happen next," as he slid his hands around the back of Pendergast's neck and drew his face to him, kissing that smile, meeting resistance for a moment … and then yielding, lips parting, kissing him back, those long, white hands slipping up to cradle D'Agosta's head, keeping him there as the kiss progressed from tentative to hungry, to something desperate that shocked them both.

He needed to breathe, he needed this to never stop – it was all D'Agosta could do to pull away from it for a flash before Pendergast pulled him back. "Wait, wait," he tried again, hands grasping Pendergast's shoulders, kneading them. "You don't like me hugging me, why…"

Sightless gaze searching his, Pendergast asked, "Vincent, don't you know?"

He shook his head, remembered Pendergast couldn't see tha, said, "No, I don't know."

Pendergast's fingers found his face again, caressing along a cheekbone. "I discouraged your embrace because I wanted it, because I liked it too much," he said, the words spoken with some reluctance, as if the secret scared him. "This," his fingers stroked D'Agosta's forehead, brushed an eyebrow, "seemed like too much to ever ask of you, and being that close to you only made the regret feel sharper." His mouth twisted with a wry smile. "Better to keep you at arm's length than to risk you not being there at all."

Digesting that, D'Agosta nodded to himself, caught one of Pendergast's hands. "I thought you had a better opinion of me than that."

"Vincent--"

"Have I ever given you cause to think I'm that narrow minded?"

"Vincent, no. It's me, it's," he sighed, a look of distress beginning to settle over his features. "This particular … field … is not one I excel at, I'm afraid."

D'Agosta circled an index finger over Pendergast's palm. "You were married."

"One success, after much exertion of effort."

D'Agosta smiled sadly, tenderly, pressed a kiss to that palm. "So exert yourself again, Aloysius," he murmured, leaning in to kiss his lips again, carefully pressing him back into the cushions of the sofa.

"If you're sure?"

"Oh," D'Agosta kissed the corner of his mouth, his chin, fingers working to undo shirt buttons and necktie, "I'm sure." He smiled, amended that. "Okay, I'm not sure what I'm doing," although as he worked a hand inside Pendergast's shirt and rubbed a stiffening nipple, he felt his confidence – among other things – rising, "but I am sure about wanting to be here, with you, like this," he finished.

He couldn't explain it, but maybe that didn't matter. It felt true, it felt _right_; like something that was meant to be. What else mattered?

"Well then," Pendergast reached for him, pulled him close, fumbling at buttons and knots as well, pausing only once to suggest they might want to take this upstairs.

After that, they were both content to let actions speak, and if there were some stutters and stammers along the way, in the end, all was eloquence.

***

_a few days later_

Not sure what had awakened him, Pendergast scooted up in bed, glancing around the room, watery rays of sunlight working their way inside.

He blinked, staring, heart pounding for a moment.

"Vincent?" He reached for him, shaking him away. "Vincent!"

"What? What is it?" D'Agosta said, trying to shake off sleep.

Pendergast smiled down at him, felt the size of the smile straining his facial muscles. "Vincent, I can see."

He watched it take D'Agosta a couple of moments to process that information, watched the realization spread across his face, and knew his lover's smile put the sun's brightness to shame.

Pulled into an exultant kiss, Pendergast went willingly, feeling a curl of uncertainty begin to unwind when D'Agosta sat up and gave him a measuring look. "Vincent…?"

"This changes things, doesn't it?"

It did? "I'm not sure…"

"Well, I mean," the alarm that had briefly twisted Pendergast's stomach slowly unraveled as he discerned the teasing light in D'Agosta's soft brown eyes, "what if it was the kink of you being blind that set things off?"

"Well I suppose," Pendergast pushed him back down to the mattress, "it's fortunate there are such things as blindfolds, should that be the case," he murmured, right before kissing the smirk off his mouth.

~the end~


End file.
